I haven’t made a sauce but if I could I would make and authentic bolognese, which is my favorite, hearty and red and cooked down for many hours, making my mouth water all day long. I might actually sear a ham bone and cook it down until the meat and tendons and marrow melt into the oblivion of sauce.
It’s a big deal to make sauce. Italians I know say ‘I’m making sauce’ and then I accept that I wont see them all day or possibly all weekend. I get it. They’re making sauce, I will see them when it’s ready. Its often family recipes, or something cribbed together from online cooking blogs and ancient, fragrantly stained cookbooks. I haven’t made it so I am only speculating.
My favorite isn’t even homemade. It’s served in the Trump Soho Hotel, the fearsome electrified glassy tower I stay in sometimes in New York, the greatest of all the cities, when theres an expense account of some type and I don’t have to run to the corner deli for potato chips and bad headache inducing wine for dinner.
The room service will bring me a immigrant perfect rigatoni bolognese, the pasta a slight hardness to the tooth, big tubes of semolina flour and egg, filled to bursting with the best sauce I have had.
There will be a deeply verdant broccoli rabe, tiny curls of crispy onion on it. I’ll dump the vegetables right onto the pasta as well as all the cheese that I can beg from the hotel kitchen. There will be red pepper flakes on there too – more than I care to admit.
I will mix it all together and eat it with the smallest fork, like a fish fork or a dessert fork. I don’t care. I have no pride when it comes to this kind of late night hotel room eating. There are no witnesses, save the room service waiter, and they’ll get a hefty tip for their silence and complicity.